Always
by kitsunelover
Summary: For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul. LuciusNarcissa he is gone, and she misses him.


_Always_

  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor am I making any money off this. Would that both these were untrue. *sigh*   
  
  
"For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul." -Judy Garland   
  
  
These days Narcissa does a lot of remembering. She's lost her purpose, her focus, without Lucius. Draco does his best to cheer her up, but he too is forlorn without Lucius.   
  
Never before has the manor seemed so cold and forbidding. It is like an ice palace. And she is the Snow Queen.   
  
Narcissa still remembers a time when it was full of life and noise. That was before Lucius was incarcerated in Azkaban. She shudders with rage and fear whenever she thinks of her Lucius stifling in there, like some common cutthroat.   
  
Whenever she walks through the halls, she is forcibly reminded of the day he proposed to her. Even now she keeps the corridors of Malfoy Manor adorned with roses, Lucius's favorite, but they are lifeless all the same.   
  
_He smiles as he enters the sitting room, where she waits, hands folded demurely in her lap of wine-colored silk.   
  
Words are exchanged, like bright butterflies. He is radiant - Narcissa fixes his image in her mind forever. She thinks her heart will burst from rapture when he sweeps into a kneeling position and asks for her hand (for her heart goes faster and lighter and it's going to fly away oh yes away away). And she says yes, both meaning it fervently and wishing that she is the one kneeling instead, for Lucius is a god and he should not ever have to kneel for anyone - not even her.   
  
He whispers, "Always, Narcissa. Always."   
  
She knows what he means. A smile makes its langorous way across her face.   
  
"Always," she echoes._   
  
No roses then, but those in her hall are exactly the color of the robes she wore on that day. And Lucius prefers those above all others.   
  
The large bed that they shared is worse than the halls. It brings back memories of the nights they spent locked in each other's arms, of liquid-fire caresses and silver kisses, of soft promises murmured against sleek limbs and white necks.   
  
An instance which stands out particularly in Narcissa's mind is the satin morning when she woke up before Lucius and saw him sleeping, his face like that of a newborn angel in the fresh sunlight. She had to turn away to hide the love which threatened to spill from her eyes.   
  
Draco doesn't look much like his father at all, she notices. It's hard for others to see, but Draco's blond good looks are his mother's. Narcissa is sorry for this.   
  
Once Bellatrix asked Narcissa what drew her to Lucius. He has the power to give Moonlight Sonatas to the unhearing; at his touch painted phoenixes spring from their scrolls - that is what Narcissa told her sister. It is true, because there is no other explanation for how Lucius has made her so irrevocably _his_.   
  
One day she's in the garden pruning roses like Lucius used to do. He did take good care of them. A careless gesture results in a thin ribbon of scarlet on a white template. This is bad.   
  
This calls to mind the night Lucius slipped in late from one of the Dark Lord's revels with bloodied hands and a claret stain on his face.   
  
_Lucius walks stealthily to the bathroom to wash the blood off, but Narcissa emerges from a black corner in front of him.   
  
"Narcissa. You should be in bed." His hands are lowered into shadow, but she can still see the dark smear on his cheek.   
  
"I couldn't sleep. You know I can't when you're gone." She steps toward him. He retreats.   
  
"I am unclean . . ." he says as she moves to touch him.   
  
"Never to me." She reaches for his hands, which flutter in the darkness like pale moths. He flinches.   
  
"I do not condemn what you do, Lucius." She lets go of his hands and touches his cheek. "You should not have to creep in your own house as though you are a fox stealing chickens."   
  
She sees her words take flight in his eyes.   
  
"Narcissa." Carefully, he kisses her and continues to the bathroom, while she stands outside. He pronounced her name like a prayer. She did not miss that, and she shivers now with a feeling that is not cold.   
  
When he comes out, he chuckles in a low tone and picks Narcissa up, carrying her to their bedroom._   
  
That memory brings a melancholy smile. That Lucius cannot live without his blood games is not hidden from Narcissa, and though she is unable to swallow them herself, she understands and allows him to take his delight from the darker sources because he _needs_ blood and death and pain like she needs sunlight and wind and her ties - first to her sisters and now to Lucius. Narcissa has always been a floating lily, and she has needed things to be bound to since she was born.   
  
It does not matter that Lucius needs knives and screams to be complete. Her Lucius is maligned and she knows better than anyone what he would sacrifice for their honorable, pure cause. Already he has given up the intimacy they once shared. There are things which he cannot tell her, which he would not tell her even if he could, and Narcissa knows that the barrier he has erected between them is because of his need to protect her.   
  
Now, almost anything is enough to set her off. Whenever Draco crosses her path, she is taken back to fifteen years ago . . .   
  
_They are nestled together on a sofa. It is evening. Lucius settles his hand possessively over her swollen belly and strokes it lazily.   
  
"We will name him Draco, and he will be handsome, strong, intelligent, and ambitious."   
  
"Like his parents."   
  
"Mmm." He buries his face in her neck. "He will be a worthy son."   
  
To this Narcissa says nothing, for her eyes are closed in the beauty of the moment: Draco kicking in her womb, and Lucius holding her, his breath hot on her skin._   
  
Like a good mother, Narcissa _is_ fond of Draco - but sometimes she can't help the guilty feeling that a child of hers and Lucius's should have been more - and then that leads to more guilt about her frail body (so unlike Bellatrix's; Narcissa envies her oldest sister immensely). The doctor said that she should not have any more children. Lucius appeared to take the news well, but Narcissa knows that someone as proud as Lucius does not receive disappointment lightly.   
  
Disappointment. That is another thing Narcissa cannot run away from. She is horribly disappointed that she can do nothing about Lucius. After his incarceration, she was frantic to get an audience with him, and after a few well-placed bribes, she did.   
_"Lucius." Trembling, she puts her hand out to him. His fair one slips between the bars and presses hers.   
  
"Darling. You look ravishing, as always." The smile-not-quite-smirk is reassuring, and she wants to dance, she's that ecstatic. Secretly, she is glad that he's noticed - she spent rather long on her hair and makeup, and she's made sure to wear very flattering teal robes. But Narcissa merely smiles composedly.   
  
"How are you? Do they treat you properly?" A thousand other questions burn in her eyes.   
  
"Well enough. How are you and Draco?" He reads them and answers with his own eyes.   
  
"Fine. We miss you, though."   
  
"I'll be out before long. Don't worry." Their words are carefully chosen, polite. They do not reflect their speakers' true feelings - the two hearts are beating like mad doves kept too long in cages. (__ah too long is forever is too long_)   
  
"I'm sorry . . ." She doesn't quite know what she was sorry for yet, but he does.   
  
"No matter," he says lightly. "He will come for me soon."   
  
Narcissa doesn't want to linger.   
  
"I love you."   
  
Her fingers twist more tightly around his. She doesn't want to leave, either.   
  
And now it is his turn to hide the love which desperately wants to overflow from his eyes.   
  
"Yes."   
  
The Dark Lord will free Lucius, she knows. Already the dementors have revolted. The disappointment pooled in the pit of her stomach comes from the fact that she wants to free him herself. Often overshadowed by her intimidating husband (and wrongly so), Narcissa is a powerful witch in her own right. But she knows that the Dark Lord is much more powerful than either her or Lucius, and so she leaves it up to him to do a cleaner job. She doesn't blame Voldemort for the predicament that they're in. She does wish she could. She needs someone to blame.   
  
Dear Lucius. Dear Lucius.   
  
The manor is empty without its master. When Narcissa dreams, it is of his lips on her tears. She always wakes with a song of him in her heart.   
  
  
_finis_


End file.
